Following Your Footsteps
by JediKnightBalthasar
Summary: After Aragorn's death, his daughter and Legolas's son follow the paths of their fathers.
1. aleph

Following Your Footsteps  
  
Summary: After Aragorn's death, his daughter and Legolas's son retrace the path of their fathers.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any recognizable characters or places. (my characters thus far: Gaven, Aralya, Mica, and Bjourn)  
  
Rating: PG-13, just to be safe  
  
*****  
  
I try not to let the tears come, clouding my vision. I don't want to waste one more second of my life with him. Bjourn is crying beside me, and suddenly I feel like a big sister again, even though Bjourn is seventy six years old herself. Eldarion stands beside me, and he is not crying, either, but standing in all his glory, ready to be crowned King.  
  
I would pause and reflect on my own chosen path, but there will be time for that later. Now I will savor my last moments with my father, before he passes to the halls of his ancestry. "Aralya," he says, so softly that only I can hear. "You were always something special."  
  
I tilt my chin up to meet his gaze. "Then stay," I whisper back. "You still have time left." Even as I say it, I know what he will say, and I do understand that time there may be yet, but not time for him.  
  
"You'll understand someday. Even if none of the others do, you will know," he tells me. "Be brave. You have your life ahead of you."  
  
"I will," I promise. "And I will never forget you, ever."  
  
"I know," he says, and he kisses my forehead, then steps back, and speaks to my brother. I could listen to his words, but I do not. My heart aches, and my breathing is ragged though silent. I can hardly bear it as my father lies down, and in moments is gone from this world. It seems too short, too unreal, and I want to cry now, to be hysterical with tears, but I'm too old for that, there are others who need me now.  
  
"It can't be real," Bjourn whispers, "it just can't!" At her feet, her six- year-old child, Mica, sobs, but Bjourn will do nothing, she is too distraught. I kneel down and lift Mica into my arms before she can begin howling.  
  
"Don't cry, Mica," I say softly. "It'll be all right." How I envy her! I wish I could cry, have a fit, but I cannot. Mica buries her head in the fabric of my dress, and I rub her back. In minutes her sobs have stopped, and I set her back on the ground. I look around, hardly able to believe that we are all still here, in the House of Kings, surrounded by death.  
  
There are not many of us now. Gimli, the Dwarf, is crying, he seems almost angry. Legolas Greenleaf, the Elf, is consoling him, near tears himself. My brothers, Eldarion and Boromir, speak to each other, Eldarion crying without sobs, tears running down his face in silence. Boromir has kept without tears, as have I. Bjourn, and Mica, both are weeping, but there is one whose sorrow goes beyond tears.  
  
I know what she will do now, I can see that this place holds far too many memories for her. "Mother," I say softly, drawing my arms around her. She submits to my hug, but does not return it. Arwen Undomiel was once the most beautiful woman in all the lands, and still she is, but sadness marks her. "He had to, it was time," I hope she understands, but I do not think she does.  
  
"This place is filled with death," she whispers. She does not find the same comfort as I do with the souls of those who have gone on.  
  
"It is filled with hope," I say, though I know this to be untrue. Gondor has had its glory days, and my father ruled at the height of its splendor, and that may be sustained for a time, then my people will slowly vanish. I try not to think about this. I look to Eldarion, silently pleading, 'Do something! Do not let them remain here so mournful!'  
  
He does not see my look. He will do nothing? Then I must act. "Come," I say. It comes out strangled and choked. I clear my throat and say again, "Come! Friends and family of my father, let us leave this place. He would not wish us to stay here, mourning for him." I turn, swallowing, trying hard not to pause or to cry. Truly, this is what he would have wanted. I walk out into the sunshine.  
  
Birds sing out of doors. The sky is blue, subtly deepening as it goes, lightest at the edges, and so bright I cannot look at it straight-on for very long. The sun is at its peak, and no clouds show their faces. How can it be so? How is the day, this awful day, so cheerful? I try to ignore it, walking softly along the road. No one speaks on the street, no human noise prevails over the wind and the birds.  
  
Somehow I make my way back to my room. Behind me, I do not bother to shut the door. I care not who looks in on me as I change into my nightclothes, though it is noon, and half-crawl into bed, exhausted. My eyes close in sleep, and then the tears come, tears enough to drown the world. 


	2. beth

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any recognizable characters and/or places. Bjourn, Mica, Aralya, and Gaven are of my invention.  
  
Cestari: Well, it was supposed to be sad! It was her father's death! But things will look up, in time.  
  
BrynnAnnalea: Thanks!  
  
JavaGalxy: Thanks! Present tense is almost like. . .it sort of brings the story alive, if done right. If a story is written well in present tense, it is really happening. (Yeah, I'm on a bit of an Alice Hoffman binge)  
  
Tbiris: Thanks!  
  
Sorry this chapter took so long!  
  
*****  
  
I awake two days later, unaware that I have slept for so long, and at first confused as to why my throat is so raw. It all comes flooding back to me with unnerving brutality, and I shoot upright, my breath coming in ragged bursts. Spots appear before my eyes. Suddenly the tears of my sleep are nothing. No grief has been washed from me, nor spilt from my eyes.  
  
I cough-sob like a young child, my throat closing in on itself as I try to be more dignified, and at the same time less saddened. Brushing away my tears with the heels of my hands, I form small circles with my shoulders to loosen them from so much time in repose.  
  
But no matter how much I try to distract myself, I cannot keep from crying out in despair, though my cries are false, mere sob-coughs. Suddenly strong arms are around me, holding me. "Shh, Aralya, it is all right. It is all right to cry."  
  
I keep my hands over my eyes, but lean into Legolas's embrace and allow him to rock me gently. He has always been as a father to me, and in light of recent events I am comforted by the feeling of being someone's daughter. "Please say it is unreal," I beg. "Please tell me he will come home."  
  
I know Legolas wants to tell me this, wants to say that everything will be all right, but he does not. Instead he lifts me so that I am no longer leaning against him, and he says, "I am so sorry, Aralya. You know your father loved you very much, but he had to do what he had to do. Think not harshly of him. He would not wish you the bitterness."  
  
"How could I?" I ask. "I loved him. I am no traitor. I love him still. I just wish he were still here." The idea of having no father has grown in my mind, and I am almost ready to accept it. My memories of him remain as clear as ever. "We will be reunited in the Halls of Mandos, Valar willing."  
  
"Valar willing," Legolas echoes. "If you are in any state for it, your brother seeks an audience with you."  
  
"Does he? It is my duty, then," I say, shakily getting to my feet. "If you would please grant me privacy for a moment?" I asked, and Legolas at once left the room. Of course he did, no one appears before a king in clothing slept in for two days, lest of all a princess. As I clothe myself more properly, I think of Legolas's words, and try to do as my father would wish.  
  
With care I pull on a full-sleeved under-dress of pure white, donning over it a bright red dress sewn with designs of stars and moons. The sleeves of this dress are unusually inflated and end before my elbow, revealing the underclothes beneath it. Bright clothes seem more fitting to me, in place of garb of gray, common of mourning. My father would not want me to mourn, I think as I quickly brush my short hair.  
  
I step out into the hall and close the door behind me. Legolas has left, mercifully, for I do not wish to see someone now who has so recently seen me so weakened. The corridors are lit well with sunshine, and I smile as I walk down them, seeking my brother. As luck would have it, I am admitted at once to see him. Never before have I observed my brother as King, sitting upon his throne and wearing his crown. Dolor marks him, but he has majesty I have never noticed before.  
  
"My King," I say, kneeling before him. He stands, sets his crown on the throne behind him, and raises me to my feet.  
  
"My sister," He replies, and embraces me warmly, though in a manner more removed than usual of him. "There was something our father left with me to give to you, and now that you have awakened I thought you might want it without delay."  
  
I cannot deny that this is so. To have something that once belonged to my father would be mercy. To have something to remember him by, something I may grasp on lonely nights and know that he is yet with me. Solemnly I nod to Eldarion. He ascends again to the throne which suddenly is in my mind our father's, and brings forth something wrapped in a well-worn piece of grey clothe. At once I know what it is, but could it possible be. . .?  
  
"Keep it well, Aralya. It is best in your hands," Eldarion says, handing the clothe-wrapped item to me. I bow my head in gratitude, and he kisses the top of my head. "A request, if I may?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"May I see you wield it, just once?" he asks.  
  
"You may," I reply, but do not at once comply. Tenderly I unwrap the clothe, revealing the red sheath I have glimpsed before only on occasions for which I got into very much trouble. My eyes caress the sheath with bereavement, and firmly wrap my fingers around the hilt. With one quick motion I draw the blade forth, Anduril singing in my hands. My heart soars, although wounded, for as I drew the sword I somehow banished any hope that my father might, by some chance, not truly be gone. "Until Mandos," I whisper almost silently, sheathing again the blade.  
  
"Aralya?" Eldarion asks. "Use it." This is an order, not a request. "He would have wanted it. That is why he left it to you, not to me, for I am a diplomat now, a politician. You are a warrior." He clasps my shoulder with his hand, then draws back. "Make him proud."  
  
"Aye, and so must you."  
  
"Come now, you know you had our father's heart," Eldarion replies. "But let us not argue."  
  
"I have now a request to make of you," I say suddenly. "Of my king. I beg your leave to depart from Gondor, for a time. I wish to journey as heroes of old tales. I wish to follow in the footsteps of my father." 


End file.
